


Silken Threads and Empty Beds

by Darienne_LeFey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darienne_LeFey/pseuds/Darienne_LeFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a fun prompt - How would Alistair react to seeing his love interest in a dress for the first time?</p>
<p>Alistair and Aria have a date... well, not a date, but they're supposed to snoop around Eamon's Keep one evening... he's waiting and she's late...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silken Threads and Empty Beds

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing about Alistair and his Warden!
> 
> As this was inspired by a prompt... I'm not sure how long it will be or where it will go...  
> I had intended for it to only be a chapter, but I might just have to take them a little further than planned. (insert wicked grin here)
> 
> Cheers! Hope you enjoy! Thank you Inanna for the prompt!

 

Torchlight threw shadows across the heavily tapestried walls, the figures and scenes within seemingly brought to life by the flickering lights. Alistair frowned at the one depicting Maric and his army entering a valley, peasants and nobles alike cheering him on. It had been his favourite as a child when he’d played in these halls. Now though, he could not help but see the plumes of dark smoke in the distant trees, the subtle darkness that touched the fringes, burnt fields, fallen souls, the hanging man – so pale in the background that if one did not look thoroughly, he would be missed all together. Even in adulation for the man that freed Fereldon, the artist knew something of war. Knew that the histories only told tales of shining armour and fallen enemies. It always danced so cleverly around the misery of hunger, sodden boots, disease and the failure of courage.

 

His eyes flicked to the shadowed figure standing to the king’s side. Loghain. He stifled a derisive snort and made the conscious effort to relax his hands. It wouldn’t do to destroy the gift before he gave it to her. He glanced down the darkened hall, she was late.

 

The echo of armoured boots reached his ears and he studiously leaned against the wall, his countenance returning to the lazy smirk and bored expression so many people expected of him. Not that he minded over much, he was never one to be stern and gloomy… humour was what got him through more than he cared to admit. Sarcasm helped to. He’d learned early on that if people don’t believe the water to be very deep, they won’t go fishing about and asking questions. Except her. She hadn’t bought the dimwitted warrior routine for a second. He was still surprised at how grateful he was for that.

 

He smirked and waved as two guards getting off shift sauntered by. Raised brows and dismissive nods were returned, courtesy of Isolde he imagined. What Eamon had seen in that shrew, he couldn’t imagine. Something to do with desperately requiring an heir; since he, the adopted bastard would clearly not do; and finding a woman that you could stand sharing a bedroom with long enough to get the job done. He shifted his weight and looked down the hall again. He himself had higher standards. A kind heart definitely took precedence over childbearing hips. That and he’d have to actually like her. He was pretty sure Eamon merely tolerated the arlessa, at least that’s how it was in his boyhood fantasies.  He supposed that looking back on it, he understood her misgivings, but the child he had been would never forgive her.

 

_Where in the Maker’s Grace is she?_

 

He was starting to get worried. Aria was deadly at twenty paces and could put up a good fight in close quarters, but despite the carnage he’d witnessed her unleash, he still fretted. It was probably just old fashioned thinking, but it still made a certain amount of sense to him. She was smaller and trained for range fighting – he’d seen none better with a bow – but he was built for the scrum of a fight. The armour made a difference too. He was a walking juggernaut in his kit. She wore little more than leather and light chainmail – if it was high enough quality that it didn’t interfere with her dancing about the battlefield like some Rivani gypsy.

 

Images of her dancing came to the forefront of his thoughts. He bit his lip trying to dismiss them, but they were as stubborn as the woman herself. High boots, hiding Maker knew what, rode up to her thighs… just high enough to make him think about how close they were to the edge of her jerkin and what was hidden. The boned leather corset she sported did a fine job of protecting her vulnerable midsection, it also emphasized how the curve of her hips gently flowed into a slender waist, then as the time glass, back to fullness as it did little to conceal her other… er… womanly charms. He shook his head to dismiss that line of thought. It didn’t work very well. He’d had to pick her up on occasion during battle, and even then, amidst the adrenaline and fear and anger, he’d felt a stirring. He wanted to touch her more, and he wanted to touch her without the blasted armour.

 

A whispered step in the dark corridor brought him back from his musings. He knew well that step. She was stealthier than most, even more so (he thought) than that damned Crow she insisted they keep around. He’d been teaching her new tricks, though Alistair thought he was enjoying his pupil a little too much. His nostrils flared at the unexpected anger. He hated that Zevran flirted with her… and that she blushed when he did. That damned elf said all the things he thought and he was left bumbling around her like a fool. _Get a grip man!_

 

“Your studies with the Crow seem to be going well, how is he this evening?” _Damn._ He almost managed to keep the snark out of his voice. She knew he hated the elf, she just didn’t know why.

 

“Not well enough apparently,” her voice was closer than he’d anticipated, “and I wouldn’t know. I’m not traipsing around the Keep in the dark to snoop with him, am I?”

 

He couldn’t help but smile, despite the rebuke in her voice. She wasn’t with Zevran tonight, she was with him. He turned to offer something witty in reply only to have his words die on his lips.

 

She was… all words were inadequate. She’d always been beautiful, even when he’d first met her, there’d been no denying that. He’d seen her blood soaked, mud covered, sick, sad, laughing (his personal favourite)… but never… in a dress.

 

“The Arlessa got a hold of me,” she looked up at him, a tentative smile on her pretty lips. She feigned annoyance, but he could tell that secretly, she was thrilled to wear something beautiful. It almost made him sad. She asked for so little and gave so much… that so small a thing as a pretty dress gave her such delight; he vowed that when this was done, Warden or no, he would see her smile like that again.

 

He stepped back to look at her, indicating that she twirl around. His heart skipped a beat as her brows arched and she spun with a giggle. Her pale lavender hair was tucked up into a fine filigreed headband, wisps dancing around her high cheekbones. The cut left her slender shoulders bare, the firelight casting golden kisses over her collar bone and emphasizing the expanse of her décolletage. Maker help him.

 

The dress itself was quite simple, he doubted the Arlessa had planned for Aria to make rough spun silk more glorious than the Queen’s finery. It was a deep midnight blue… and she luminescent within it. She reminded him of the moon on a winter’s eve. It fit her far too well, every luscious curve emphasized. A simple silver chain wrapped around her hips and hung nearly to the floor amidst the folds of the soft fabric.

 

He felt heat stir within him, and despite the protest of common sense he stepped forward and took her hand, kissing it gently. He heard the small catch in her breath and jumped back, attempting to reclaim himself. Risking a glance, he found her staring at him, indigo eyes wide. Her hand was still raised where he’d claimed it and a becoming blush rose from her breast and touched her cheeks. She nibbled her lower lip and glanced away.

 

“Alistair,” her voice was barely a whisper.

 

A door slammed somewhere up the corridor and the shuffle of multiple feet followed.

 

“I don’t care men,” a gravelly voice droned, impatience sharpening the tone, “The Arlessa doesn’t want people sneaking around the castle. Grey Wardens or no, doesn’t give them the right to go poking around. Now patrols as per usual –“

 

A chorus of groans cut him off.

 

“I don’t want to hear it… if I catch anyone sleeping on shift it’ll be latrine duty for a fortnight!”

 

The groans got louder. They also got closer.

 

“I guess that means ‘the castle is your home, you are our guests’ was merely a polite way of telling us that we are under suspicion despite saving her ungrateful child.”

 

Aria smirked at him, her eyes dancing. At least she thought he was funny. Glancing around, she scanned the hallway for doors. There was one several feet away. Darting over, she tried the handle to no avail, then hauled the endless length of skirt up passed her knee to mid-thigh. Try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the expanse of creamy flesh as she dug for her little tool kit.

 

“Dammit!” she mumbled, getting tangled in the fabric, “Alistair, can you hold this blasted thing up so I can get my tools?”

 

“Me?” he stuttered, “er… that’s not really… umm… appropriate. Is it?”

 

“Seriously?” she grimaced at him, “Fine then, I’ll hold it up and you can feel around in my garter for my kit.”

 

He gaped a moment and attempted to ignore the sudden rising need to adjust his breeches.

 

“Oh fine,” he glanced back toward the direction of the oncoming patrol, “but only because you asked nicely.”

 

He took the clutch of fabric from her hands and she immediately leaned forward, unlacing her boot. He grit his teeth and tried to look away as her cleavage fairly fell out of her bustier and that tempting thigh became more and more exposed by the second. Nimble little fingers slid into the upper boot as her balance lapsed and she leaned into him. Reacting he reached out to catch her, his hand releasing the fabric and grasping her bare thigh and the other wrapping around her waist. The soft scent of roses and honey made him lick his lips. As if wanting to touch her wasn’t enough, now he desperately wanted to know how she tasted.

 

“Hurry,” he growled into her shoulder, pretending that he feared the oncoming patrol more than what he would do if an inch more of her skin was exposed.

 

She squeaked in triumph and thrust her lock picks into the key hole, not bothering to regain her footing. 

 

They were out of time.

 

“Sorry,” Alistair whispered in her ear. He scooped her up and pushed through the door. The lock gave, but thankfully the wood remained intact. Aria swallowed her yelp and managed to retrieve her picks before they tumbled to the floor. He shut the door as Aria re-bolted it. Clasping her close to his chest, they leaned against the wood, listening to the troop of tired soldiers clamour by. The knob rattled as one alert individual tried it. There was a pause.

 

“Locked.” Came the call. The grumbling and shuffling continued.

 

She clung to him in the dark as they waited for the footfalls to grow quiet, then listening to one another’s heartbeats for a time after that. Neither willing to relinquish the touch of the other.  Alistair blinked, trying to focus on anything in the dim room that would give him some idea of where they’d ended up. He nearly dropped her when her breath blew over the small hairs on the back of his neck.

 

“It seems you’ve saved the day, brave knight,” her mirth danced in his ears. Reluctantly, he let her go, nearly dropping her again when her supple body slid against his, her small booted feet searching for the ground neither of them could see.

 

“Err… yes, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck and shifted, afraid to hit something and ruin any success they may have had, “bashing in doors is more my specialty. Faster too.”

 

Her answering laugh made him glad for the darkness, he didn’t want her to see the smile it brought to his face to make her happy. He heard her shuffle a little to his left, then a soft thud followed by a quiet string of expletives he was sure she’d only learned recently… whether it was that damned crow or the shady duelist at the Pearl she’d heard them from he wasn’t sure. He muffled a laugh.

 

“What?” came the melodious voice in the dark, pretty even in her annoyance.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he couldn’t keep the grin out of his voice, “I’ve never heard someone use such foul language and manage to make it sound adorable rather than threatening.”

 

“Ha!” he could almost see that soft pink tongue that was inevitably poking out from those pouty lips. There was a quick rasping sound and darkness fled as a small candle illuminated the room. Once he could tear his eyes from the petite figure holding it aloft, he realized that they were in an unused bed chamber.

 

The bed linens were turned down, stripped to the bare but there was no accumulation of dust. Clearly it had recently been inhabited, but was not yet prepared for another body. The furnishings were modest, a larger bed than that of a servant, but minimal furniture… a step above a servant, several below a guest.

 

“I wonder if these were Jowan’s quarters,” Aria mused aloud.

 

Alistair watched as she flitted from desk to wardrobe and back to the desk. An inquisitive little blue hummingbird opening drawers and lifting abandoned books only to put them back down; vaguely disappointed when no grand secrets leapt from their pages. He shifted his weight, trying not to look directly at the bed and the thoughts it inspired. He fondled the rose he’d painstakingly preserved since Lothering. She really was his light in this darkness.

 

When he was recruited to the Wardens he’d found purpose and family – or the nearest thing he’d known to it. When she came into his life, he’d found hope. He’d found a friend and with the stirrings in his chest, perhaps more. Swallowing, he reached out and touched her shoulder. She jumped, stifling a yelp. Hand clasped to her now heaving bosom, she turned to him, breathless. Maker help him.

 

“Maker!” she whispered loudly, “you scared me! How is it that a man your size can still manage to move so quietly?!”

 

She shook her head, more wisps of hair coming loose from the arlessa’s handiwork. Leaning back on the desk, she looked up at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of her rosy lips.

 

“Well, you have my full and undivided attention now.”

 

“Excellent,” he smirked, “and here I thought I was beginning to lose my touch.”

 

She indulged him with a smirk. That smirk that told him she knew he was avoiding something and she wasn’t going to let him. Maker, he loved that. He loved that she cared enough not to give up on him.

 

“I, ummm,” he swallowed, the room felt suddenly small and the scent of roses and honey intoxicating, leaving him light headed, “I, have something for you.”

 

He pulled out the rose, too fast and too awkward in his own mind. He’d wanted to present it in a field with sunlight and singing birds and maybe music… but here he was, in a dark room in a dark castle. His own impetuousness irked him. He’d never get it right. It was too late now, so he stumbled on.

 

“I saw it in Lothering. Even amidst the death and smoke and fear… it was still there. Perfect and beautiful. It gave me hope and well, it made me think of you.”

 

The words just tumbled out and he found he couldn’t look her in the eye after. He felt her take it from his hand and he stepped back, unsure what to do, what to expect. Her silence lingered and his heart began to sink. He risked a glance at her.

 

She was staring at the gift. Her beautiful eyes, the colour of twilight skies, were wide and dare he imagine, glistening with deep emotion. Her delicate fingers tentatively touched the velvety petals, tenderly caressing each one as though it might dissolve in her hand. Then she closed her eyes and inhaled, a radiant smile lighting her face.

 

“Do you like it?” Alistair spoke for fear of simply sweeping her into his arms and kissing her right then, or running screaming from the room.

 

“Thank you,” her voice was barely a whisper. She looked up at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, a rare sign of indecision on her part. She held the rose up to her nose again and took in its fragrance, before placing it gently on the desk behind her. Taking his face in her soft little hands, she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

 

Those petal soft lips sent electricity through him and his breath caught. He didn’t want her to pull away. Instinctively, he put his arms around her, hugging her closer, feeling the warmth her softness pressed against him. There was no armour between them now. She looked up at him, the closest thing to doubt he’d ever seen in those beautiful eyes. Did she think he would rebuke her? Did she think he could possibly not want this more than he wanted air?

 

The pounding of his heart in his ears drowned out his own fear. Gently, he slid one hand up the curve of her back to take her face in his palm. He felt her relinquish herself to that touch, letting her body be pulled yet closer into his. He felt her delicate fingers caress the sensitive hair on the nape of his neck. Maker help him, he was lost.

 

“Aria,” his voice little more than a whisper, husky with the heat building in him. Those fathomless eyes gazed into his own and silky lips parted ever so slightly. He closed his eyes, every other sense heightened as his lips touched hers.

 

Maker, she was soft. She tasted faintly of honey and apples, the lingering sweetness of her favourite mead. He drank in her flavour, her suppleness. She surrendered to him, her mouth opening to accept him as instinct drove his tongue to explore beyond the soft plushness of rose petal lips. The warmth of her sent static dancing up his spine and his thoughts fell apart. She was lush in his arms, yielding beneath his mouth and he found his hands wandering over her body, his own thrumming as heat and desire began to pool in his loins.

 

She responded in kind, arching beneath his big hands as he tangled them in her hair and explored the entrancing curve of her lower back, feeling the swell of her lush ass beneath his spread fingers. Her own hands tangled in his cropped hair, pulling his ravenous mouth deeper into her own. His body burned from the inside out, and instincts he’d not been prepared for overwhelmed him. Gently he pulled her head back, a soft whimper escaped her lips as his own tasted the delicate line of her jaw and neck.

 

His eyes opened briefly, falling on the bed only steps away. The warning in his mind was silence by the feel of her soft pink tongue caressing his ear and the hum of her throat as her mouth placed soft kisses on the sensitive lobe. A low rumble in his chest was the closest caution he could give before he took her mouth with his own again. His hand pulled her closer to his body, pressing her hips into the hardness that she’d elicited from his body. She moaned softly into his kiss as he began walking her slowly backwards until the back of her legs touched the bed.

 

He slid his hands up her back, feeling the delicate lacings of her corset. He was tired of armour and war and fear and responsibility between them. He tried to undo the fastenings, eliciting soft giggles between hard kisses. The need in his thick, long cock pressed on him. The heat he could feel building between her legs was becoming more than he could manage.

 

Pulling her hard to him with one hand, he kissed her as deeply as he wanted to bury himself in her softness. Grasping the fine lace with the other, he tore it from the bodice. The force of it pulled her mouth from his. She gave a small cry, wide eyes and swollen lips looking at him, equal parts shock and desire. His mouth was on hers again, unyielding in his passion. He tossed the torn corset not caring where it landed. His hands grasped her hips, visions of grasping them as she danced naked on his hardened shaft brought a groan to his throat. His breath came faster and faster as his slid his hands up her waist, thumbs brushing the luscious swell of her breasts. He fought to master himself, pulling away, his thumb grazing the tender swell of plush flesh he longed to cup and feel yield beneath his hands.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, unable to relinquish his hold on her body despite his tenuous control, “was that too soon?”


End file.
